


High Stakes

by shimadagans



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Hunters, Halloween Special, M/M, Sorceress Ikora, Vampire Felwinter, Vampire Rasputin, Vampires, Werewolf Shaxx, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:22:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26908081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shimadagans/pseuds/shimadagans
Summary: Felwinter, vampire expert and member of the well-known and dubiously-respected Iron Lords, gets tasked with what seems to be a minor threat out west.What he finds on his search alters him, and the course of his second life, forever.Vampire Felwinter and Werewolf Shaxx for spooky season because the idea grabbed me and wouldn't let me go.
Relationships: Felwinter/Shaxx (Destiny)
Comments: 27
Kudos: 54





	1. Scouting

“You need to feed.”

It’s not the first time Felwinter has heard those words, lately, said with increasing insistence. He suppresses a rueful snort at the very idea, choosing to ignore Shaxx in favor of pouring over the map on the rickety table, meticulously marking the path they’d walked earlier, before the sun rose. Shaxx had tracked the scent of their target dutifully, carefully, and Felwinter made notes, counting paces until he was sure they’d followed the fiend’s steps toe to heel.

“Felwinter,” Shaxx speaks again, much closer than before—he really is much too stealthy for someone of his stature--and Felwinter’s pen jitters slightly, perfectly mapped line going wide for a split second before he can correct it. He gives himself a moment to collect himself before he grits out, “What.”

“The longer you wait, the weaker you’ll get,” Shaxx says, and Felwinter would roll his eyes if he could, at this fool trying to explain his own predicament to him as if _he’s_ the one who’s been living with it for centuries, “You can’t keep going in this state. You nearly tore the door off its hinges the other day. You’ll lose control, and then where will we be?”

“The same place we are now, probably,” Felwinter replies, with a grim amount of satisfaction at how Shaxx’s posture goes from concerned to peeved, “Your…’concern’ is noted, but I know my limits. I don’t ‘lose control’.” When Shaxx makes a doubtful noise somewhere close behind him, he continues, brusque, business-like, “Leaving to find a feeding source now would lose all the progress we’ve made so far. We might even end up losing his trail completely.”

Shaxx goes quiet for a long moment, and Felwinter goes back to mapping their early morning walk, thinking that perhaps, for once, he’s won an argument with Shaxx. He considers the quivering paths he’s marked on the map so far, about half a dozen color-coded lines drifting in differing patterns, overlapping at key points he’s started denoting as potential ‘rendezvous’ spots.

Foolish of him, really, looking back.

The scent of warm, fresh blood clouds his sense of smell, first, the fog of it rising to the roof of his mouth, dissolving any thoughts other than _need-feast-devour_ as his pen slides from his twitching grasp.

Felwinter turns, slowly, as if dreaming, and there’s _red_ , bright and bountiful, easing out of a shallow cut on Shaxx’s scarred arm, his sleeve rolled up to the elbow. Shaxx sets the knife he’s holding in his other hand aside, but the quiet clink it makes seems distant to him somehow, as he fixates on the almost too-loud sound of Shaxx’s pulse from across the room, the edges of Felwinter’s vision blurring in time with it. He takes off his helmet to try to clear his head, and _that’s_ another misstep—the scent clogs every sensor he’s got until his head feels like its full.

Shaxx holds up his arm, as if it’s an offering, head tilted to the side, so the faint lantern light catches the white part of his helmet, “What are you waiting for?”

Felwinter’s across the room in two strides, faster than he can think about it, crowded into Shaxx’s space, hands hovering just over Shaxx’s arm, though he catches himself before he can touch him. This close, the scent nearly makes his knees buckle. “You’re a fool,” he hisses, and the cloying almost-taste of iron hangs just out of reach. He curls his fingers into fists to stop himself from making a hasty grab at Shaxx’s arm, and the werewolf has the gall to snort at him.

“ _I’m_ a fool? Really? Which of the two of us has refused to tend to his needs and is now risking both of our safety and security?” Shaxx shoots back. He waves his arm around, sighing, “Felwinter. It’s been weeks. You need to be at your best if we’re going to confront what we've been tracking. You know that. If you refuse to leave to find a source, then this is the best option.”

Felwinter knows, he knows Shaxx is merely being pragmatic, perhaps even considerate, but the idea burns him like overexposure to sunlight. It’s too much, standing so close to him with his offer in the air, his _temptation_. The fool has no idea what he’s doing, no idea what he’s willingly offering, but it _has_ been longer than he’d like to admit since he fed last…

Felwinter can feel his fingers uncurling against his will, reaching out to take hold of Shaxx’s arm.

“Don’t make me shove my arm into your mouth,” Shaxx says, making a fist so the blood flows more freely from the cut.

Bastard.

“Only a bit,” he finds himself saying, hazily, more to himself than to Shaxx, “I’m only taking a bit,” and with no other preamble, he ducks his head to sink his fangs into Shaxx’s arm.

The first pull is madness. The second is sweet, euphoric. By the third, he’s lost count, eyes shuttered in bliss, in relief as he siphons from Shaxx’s arm, only barely aware of the gasp that rattles through Shaxx’s ribs somewhere around him. He can almost feel himself regaining strength as he drinks, though the tiny part of his mind that’s still logical tells him that can’t possibly be the case.

He registers, distantly, that Shaxx is holding him by the shoulder, but that thought is weak, fleeting, at the next taste. It’s so overwhelming, so _good_ and Felwinter tries to recount a time when blood ever tasted like _this_. This thought, too, goes flying overhead as his hold on Shaxx’s arm tightens automatically, instinctively at a twitch in Shaxx’s fingers, his own fingers clamping down around his wrist and forearm on either side of the cut. Shaxx makes some noise that he can barely hear over the rush of blood, the beat of Shaxx’s strong pulse, and for a moment he thinks perhaps he should seal the wound and pull away, surely this is enough to sustain him for at least a week, but he sucks again and, _oh_ , how can he be expected to stop so easily?

It’s only when Shaxx presses insistently at his shoulder, maybe with a bit more force than usual, that Felwinter forces himself to stop. He presses over the wound with the machinations of his tongue, feeling it seal under his mouth before pulling away.

The room comes back into focus after a moment, and he’s suddenly aware of Shaxx’s uneven breathing as he clamors to inspect him. He checks his pulse at the wrist of his outstretched arm, quite afraid he’s pulled much more than he should’ve.

“Fuck,” Shaxx rasps out, and Felwinter is now also very aware of how close he’s still standing to the man in question, “Does it feel like _that_ every time?”

Felwinter takes a quick step back, searching for something, anything to wipe his face with, all too aware of the messy way he’d fed in his haste. “I assume so,” he mutters, snatching up a handkerchief and making quick work of whatever got left on his face plates. When he glances back at Shaxx to make sure he hasn’t passed out, the werewolf is looking, presumably, right at him, in what he assumes is some part horror.

“Apologies,” he says, a rare word from him as he sets the bloodied fabric aside, “I got a bit carried away.”

* * *

A bit carried away, indeed.

He’d first come across the werewolf on a scouting mission of sorts—the Iron Lords, famed hunters and slayers of all manner of malicious beings, had sent him, their ‘vampire expert’, to track what they’d thought had been a newly-changed young one on a rampage out west.

“Three brutal drainings within a five-mile radius, in a fortnight,” Perun had read from her report in the dim lighting of the keep’s study, her hood masking her eyes, “This isn’t the work of one of the older, sneaky types we’ve been tracking. Way too obvious.”

“Felwinter,” Radeghast had called for him, “You know what to do.”

So, he’d gone to Orewing, gotten as much blessed ammunition as he could safely carry, and left the next evening.

A week of increasingly frustrating tracking later, he’d _thought_ he’d cornered the damn beast, in what remained of a crumbling castle tucked into a mountain.

He’d slipped past the keep’s defenses, noting how strangely intricate and well-placed the traps littered about the place were—odd for a young vampire on a mindless killing spree to take the time to even think about the idea that their rampage had attracted the attention of hunters, let alone think about trying to evade them. Even a veteran hunter (and survivor of hunts) like him was having to take a slower approach than usual.

As soon as he’d set foot in the place proper, he’d gotten the tell-tale itch of being watched all along his spine, and the further he went, the more he started to think that perhaps he wasn’t tracking a young thrall at all.

There had been a low, rumbling growl from the shadows of the main hall as he’d carefully dismantled what appeared to be an ancient bear trap, and he’d had his gun in his hands before the next thought had entered his mind.

A mistake, really, because in the next instant he’d been knocked aside squarely by _something_ , too fast to quite catch, and when he’d grabbed for one of the stakes strapped to the inside of his coat, he swore he heard a dismissive snort before that got knocked out of his hands too.

He’d ended up backed up against a bunch of crates, faced with definitely the largest werewolf he’d ever seen, lumbering forward slowly with its teeth bared in a snarl that would have terrified most people, and still unnerved even him.

The great wolf had taken a deep breath in, then shaken its massive head, huffing out a “Leave,” and jerking its head toward the door Felwinter had just come in through.

“Are you the one who’s been killing people around here?” Felwinter had asked, instead, and that had earned him another growl.

The wolf had just huffed at him, starting to sniff around the place again, and Felwinter caught glimpses here and there of missing fur, of scars that crossed the wolf’s whole form, a chunk taken out of its ear—clearly this one had been around a long while.

He’d slowly come to stand, when he was sure the wolf wasn’t going to tackle him, and even standing while the wolf paced around the room, he was barely taller than it.

“Where’s your pack?” He’d asked next, carefully re-slotting the stake amongst the many straps and pockets and watching the wolf make its rounds. Apparently, that was the wrong question to ask, because the wolf turned back to him with an even sharper growl than before, the fur all along its back standing up at odd angles.

“Alright, no pack then,” Felwinter had raised his hands in a mockery of peace, moving to the trap he’d been examining before while keeping the wolf well within his line of sight, “I’m guessing you’re the one who set all this up, but why?”

The wolf had made a point of sniffing exaggeratedly at the air, stomping one of its massive paws on the floor before resuming its task, which Felwinter gathered meant it was also tracking something.

There was almost no way the werewolf was the culprit behind the three bloodless corpses, which left only one useful conclusion: that it was tracking the same thing Felwinter was, for some reason. He weighed his options before speaking again, watching the wolf turn back to him, eyeing him warily.

“My name is Felwinter, and I was sent by the Iron Lords,” he’d said, and the wolf started growling again before he’d even finished, but he’d pressed on, “I’m tracking something that they thought was a young thrall, but I think you already know that whatever’s killing people around here is no ordinary youngling.”

The wolf had shifted its weight around, clearly considering, before it looked towards the door again, ears flicking back and forth, a single eye flashing in warning.

Then, an all-too-familiar shriek echoed from somewhere above them, and the ceiling of the room came down on them, because of course it did.

His mind spun—he’d heard that shrill sound before, long ago.

Rasputin. His loathsome sire.

As he’d tracked him here, he’d wanted to believe, really, that this was the work of a particularly wild young vampire, but there was no mistaking it now, with that awful sound ringing through his sensors.

When Felwinter had managed to get back to his feet, reeling, clawing his way out from under the rubble, the wolf was struggling to squirm out from under a sizable chunk of what must’ve once been the roof, its left leg trapped beneath it. Felwinter had crossed the room without thinking and, despite the growls he was sure were supposed to be yet another warning, he lifted the debris just enough for the wolf to heave itself free.

The massive wolf looked between him and the newly installed skylight before sniffing at the air and huffing, apparently having lost the scent for now.

“Come back. Tomorrow,” it had barked, grimacing as if every word it spoke was painful, before turning around and lumbering past more crates into the next room over.

Against his better judgement, he’d returned the next day, just as twilight fell, and when he’d ducked into the castle’s formerly grand entryway, there had been a man leaning up against the adjoining wall, waiting for him, wearing orange and white armor and a horned helmet.

When the man pushed off the wall and came towards him, Felwinter immediately leveled his shotgun at him in greeting, and the man had slowed his approach, reaching out a single hand.

“Lord Shaxx,” the man had said, in way of introduction, and when Felwinter didn’t lower the gun, “We met last night, when you barged into my home.” His voice was clearer than he’d expected, given the helmet.

Not that Felwinter had any room to talk, really.

Felwinter _had_ lowered the shotgun at that, noticing that the man seemed to be favoring his right side, and it clicked. “Iron Lord Felwinter,” he’d replied, eyeing Lord Shaxx’s hand until the he’d lowered it, “But you know that already. How fares the leg?”

Lord Shaxx had balked at that if his tense posture was any indicator, “Ah. A bit stiff, but it’ll heal,” he’d waved a dismissive hand and started heading deeper into the castle ruins, waving for Felwinter to follow.

“How fares the ceiling?” Felwinter had followed him in, stowing the gun away for now, noting how the other man had to duck to fit under most of the doorways. It was more believable, now, that visage of the gigantic wolf from before.

The other man had snorted, leading Felwinter into what appeared to be a study, the most intact room he’d seen so far, “It’s seen better days.” He’d paused, turning to Felwinter as if to study him, “And worse nights, I’d reckon.”

Felwinter had cut right to the chase, “That fiend you’re been tracking. How long has it been in this area?”

The werewolf had studied him further for a moment before turning to roll out a map on the table in the center of the room, “Two weeks, maybe. And it’s been scaring everyone else away.”

Felwinter tamps down the urge to inquire about ‘everyone else’, trying to focus on the task at hand, “Any information you’d care to share?”

Lord Shaxx had turned to look at him again, arms crossed, “You ask an awful lot of questions for someone who thought it wise to barge into someone else’s home.”

“You are in over your head,” Felwinter had supplied, and it seemed to do the trick, the werewolf’s broad shoulders rising like hackles, “You have no idea what you’ve been scenting.”

“I trust my sense of smell more than I trust you,” the Lord of the castle retorted, voice rising, “It’s one of _your_ kind, old as stone. Smells older than you, for certain.”

Felwinter had taken a step further into the room, sighing, “Yes. Older than me, and incredibly dangerous for anyone near here, living or dead.” He’d reached out _his_ hand, “I’m offering my assistance in dealing with it. You’re clearly decent enough at tracking if you’ve managed to keep up with him but,” he’d paused to choose his words carefully, “I’m…familiar with this particular vampire.”

Shaxx kept his arms crossed for a long moment, head tilted as if staring at Felwinter’s helm would give him any clues, before stepping up to clasp Felwinter’s hand, shaking it once, “Familiarity doesn’t bode well, but I’ll take what help I can get.” He’d released Felwinter’s hand and walked back over to his map, tapping at it, “People from the nearby village have started coming round here, convinced there’s a beast of some sort living here. They’re right, but,” Shaxx had barked out a sardonic laugh, “Not in the way they think. I’ve lived here longer than any of them have been alive, trying to keep anything nastier from messing with them, but…”

“This particular fiend is older than the both of us put together, and three times as lethal,” Felwinter said, approaching the table, “It needs to be taken care of quickly and carefully, and he will almost definitely have amassed a small army of thrall before we can even get there, if he hasn’t already.”

“’Familiar’, right,” Shaxx had shaken his head, “So, how do we start?”

* * *

Now, he stands here, watching Shaxx take uneven breaths, staring an unforeseen problem right in the face.

Usually, when he feeds, its from either a volunteer, one of his comrades, or its some person with a face he can’t remember. Even then, he only cares enough to make sure they’re still breathing when he pulls away, hoping that they’ll think they’ve imagined the whole thing when they next wake.

By the way Shaxx careful lifts his arm to look at the barely-there mark where he’d been bleeding just moments ago, he won’t be forgetting this.

Despite most of his other functions rising to high-speed, parts of his mind remain muddled. He usually leaves the scene right after feeding, and here he is, rooted in place by concern, of all things.

“I should be…fine, for at least a week,” Felwinter says eventually, and Shaxx clears his throat before replying, slowing rising to his feet. Felwinter takes a quick step back to give him space, and the werewolf tilts his head at him.

“You’d best not let it get to that again,” Shaxx says, crossing the room to the door, “I’d prefer it if I didn’t have to injure myself to make sure your _needs_ are met.”

He’s out the door before Felwinter can get another word in, in more of a hurry than usual.

Strange.


	2. Howl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [“You must be a glutton for punishment,” he tries to make light of the situation, to divert Shaxx’s attention from how carefully he takes hold of his left arm.  
> “Some might say that,” Shaxx manages before he cuts himself off, Felwinter’s fangs sinking into the meat of his arm.]
> 
> Our duo gets a surprise visit, then makes a surprise visit of their own.

They’re eating dinner when it happens.

Rather, Shaxx is eating dinner, something he’s roasted over an open flame and greens picked from the garden he keeps surprisingly neat, tucked away in the innards of the castle. Felwinter is looking pointedly away, double-checking the intel he’s gathered from nearby on the fiend’s movements.

Shaxx hasn’t asked him not to look at his unmasked face, but the trepidation with which he announces that he’s going to eat, drink, or do something else that requires removing his helmet speaks volumes. He’s simply trying to keep the playing field even, giving Shaxx the same privacy he gives Felwinter. Currently, he’s trying not to think about how he can hear Shaxx’s pulse clear across the room still, as if it’s taunting him, like it has been since he first (and last) fed from him about a week ago.

He wonders if Shaxx knows, if he knows that now he’s not just a thorn in his side that he hates relying on, but also a steadfast presence in his mind.

One second, Shaxx is tucking in, and the next, he’s standing, rounding the table and heading towards the dusty window, head tilted to the side.

“Do you hear that?” he asks, low, a rumble of unease.

Felwinter’s about to ask what it is he’s supposed to be hearing when he  _ does _ .

Footfalls, running. Fast, faster than humanly possible, and too quiet, too precise.

“Thrall,” Felwinter says, loading his gun as quickly as he can manage, “At least three. Heading right this way with purpose.”

When he cocks the gun and looks over to Shaxx again, his helmet is firmly back in place, mostly-eaten food forgotten. “Right. Weapons then.” He reaches for his own gun, holstered, as always, at his thigh.

“You might be better off just shifting,” Felwinter suggests, already making for the doorway, listening still for the approaching group.

Shaxx shrugs at him, as nonchalant as can be, “What if they just want to talk?”

Felwinter ducks out of the hole in the main hall, coming out around the missing chunk of wall, “Young thrall rarely want to _ talk _ .”

True to his word, as soon as the trio of figures spot him, they zero in on him, changing course and rushing him from about thirty feet out, even more jagged in their approach than most frenzied thrall he’s encountered. The one in front, long hair unkempt and whipping in the wind as they run, outright snarls at him, revealing newly-sharpened teeth.

“Stay where you are!” Shaxx shouts from somewhere behind him, and Felwinter sighs.

“They aren’t going to listen to you,” Felwinter calls, waiting patiently for them to enter his range, shotgun at the ready.

Instead, the one furthest in the back turns at Shaxx’s voice, visibly smelling at the air, slitted eyes narrowing before they hiss and head straight for the werewolf, claws out and ready.

Felwinter doesn’t think, for once.

Dark gore splatters the side of his coat as he blasts two quick rounds of silver pellets into the encroacher, dropping them, and he suddenly finds himself standing just in front of Shaxx. Wind whips past them to catch up with his movement, and Felwinter all but snarls at him, “Either shoot them or find cover, they can smell you!”

Shaxx, thankfully, doesn’t need to be told twice, and a silver bullet soars past his shoulder and into the side of the unruly-looking youngling.

Felwinter darts to the remaining untouched fledgling, forgoing the gun in favor of an even more close-quarters tool: his claws. He rakes them across the torso of the younger vampire, then across their jugular, grimacing at the acrid smell of ichor as the youngling stumbles. He shoves them backwards with one hand, reaching for a stake from inside his coat with the other, and follows the youngling to the ground, slamming the stake through the left side of their chest as they go.

As he turns back, there’s the sickening crunch of bone, and Felwinter scrambles over and around the bits of stone wall just in time to see Shaxx slam the last vampire into the wall itself. They slide down the wall and collapse into a heap and Shaxx rolls his shoulders with a huff, seemingly disappointed.

“Not much of a fight,” he huffs, and Felwinter hands him a stake, which Shaxx takes, but with visible hesitance.

“What?” he asks, turning to drive another stake, all business, through the heart of the fledgling he’d downed earlier, “Unless you want to deal with these same fools again come tomorrow, we’d best finish them off.”

“Right,” Shaxx replies, and Felwinter hears rather than sees the third stake strike true before Shaxx clears his throat, “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I just explained why we have to, but if  _ you _ want to scuffle with them again, by  _ all _ means--”

“Not that,” Shaxx shakes his head quickly, rising back up to his full, considerable height and coming to stand near Felwinter as he studies the body of the unkempt vampire, “You didn’t need to protect me.”

“I wasn’t protecting you,” Felwinter says, immediately, though he knows that it’s not true, and though he knows Shaxx is keen enough to know it’s not true, “They were the easiest target, rushing straight at you like that. Best to thin their numbers as quickly as possible before getting overwhelmed.”

“Right,” Shaxx replies, still sounding as if he doesn’t quite believe him, “Of course.”   
  


“Look at this,” Felwinter says, instead, pulling up one of the felled fledgling's eyelids to reveal jagged orange lines splitting across the whites of their eye, “This is...unusual, even for frenzied young ones.”

Shaxx seems willing to let the previous topic drop, “I noticed something similar across the hands of the one against the wall. Some kind of magic?”

“I’m...not sure,” he admits, which is mostly the truth, “I may have an idea, but I can’t be certain. I’d need a second opinion.”

He’s seen this particular kind of magic before, years ago. One might even say he’s familiar with it, something that should’ve stayed buried deep in his past.

“I might know someone,” Shaxx says, wincing as he straightens out again, and the scent of blood overpowers the stench of ink-black in Felwinter’s senses.

“You’re hurt,” he notes, and Shaxx stops, caught with his hand splayed across his side.

“And you’re sharp, as always,” he snorts in return, and Felwinter rises to stand, as well, maintaining just enough space between them so that it isn’t obvious he’s trying very hard to ignore the pull of the wound just under Shaxx’s fingers. “Shall we head inside?” Shaxx asks, gesturing back towards the hole in the wall, and Felwinter acquiesces, if only so he doesn’t have to walk behind Shaxx and smell him the whole way in.

* * *

A few days later, while he’s taking notes on the fauna he’s seen in the area, Shaxx strides on up to him, both sleeves rolled up so his thick, scarred forearms are well on display. He stops right in front of Felwinter’s chair, looking down at him expectantly, and Felwinter sighs and closes his notebook, “This again?”

“It’s been a week,” Shaxx responds, taking the chair across from him, dust rising from the cushion as he settles, “You know what we agreed to.”

“Technically, I ‘agreed’ to nothing,” he scoffs, but he sets his book aside and rises, hoping that he can get this over and done with before the strange pull Shaxx’s blood seems to have on him takes hold. He can’t deny the convenience of their arrangement, however. “You must be a glutton for punishment,” he tries to make light of the situation, to divert Shaxx’s attention from how carefully he takes hold of his left arm.

“Some might say that,” Shaxx manages before he cuts himself off, Felwinter’s fangs sinking into the meat of his arm.

Felwinter had heard, once, long ago--when he still found himself frequently in the company of other vampires--that some of his kind could taste the emotions of their prey.

“It’s a real thrill, to chase some poor lug into a dead end, really put the fear in them,” the other vampire had said, taking Felwinter’s silence for acknowledgement, “Then drain ‘em for all they’re worth. You can really feel it in them when you finally let yourself catch ‘em. Got a friend who runs the whole seduction schtick for the same reason, ‘cause she loves gettin’ nearly drunk offa some unlucky sap, but that’s never been my taste…”

Felwinter tries not to remember the events that followed, unpleasant as they were, but that bit has stuck with him since then, against his wishes. He hasn’t ever felt the need to fully drain someone, not once, not even when he was at his most desperate, parched like desert sands.

And yet, perhaps a kernel of truth rests among the falsities and vulgarity of the premise.

The first time he’d fed from Shaxx, he’d been...overcome, to put it lightly. Not fully himself, not the self that  _ thinks _ , mind too full of relief and carnality to really process much beyond shallow senses. Now, though, as he takes his first drag from Shaxx’s outstretched arm, not quite looming above him, he finds that he can taste...something. Past the woodsy, almost smoky bite of first taste, there’s a hint of something else, something he can’t quite put his finger on or wrap his tongue around.

He tries to chase it, taking another pull, then another, and Shaxx stifles some sort of noise from where he’s sitting. Felwinter hasn’t been able to taste most normal food in centuries, but somehow Shaxx’s blood brings to mind the warmth of fall spices, the tang of something almost like vinegar, and then, perhaps vanilla…?

Shaxx shifts somewhere underneath him again, and, after taking one last pull, Felwinter seals the wound with a quick swipe of his tongue and pulls his mouth away. It’s a much neater affair than last time, without Shaxx’s blood smearing all over his arm and Fewinter’s faceplates.

Going by Shaxx’s posture and his erratic breathing, however, he’s no less dazed than last time, and the helm is still on, of course. Felwinter doesn’t bother making any guesses about how he feels, though--he remembers clearly the first and last time he was bitten, remembers the pain like a flash of fire straight through his frame, burning him from the inside out--

Regardless, he reminds himself, Shaxx agreed to this, offered it, even. Felwinter makes a show of checking his pulse at his wrist just in case, even though he can hear it pulsing through his head as he swallows the remnants.

“Alright?” Felwinter asks, because Shaxx is panting like he’s been running laps around the castle grounds and that isn’t usually how people react to losing a decent amount of blood, in his experience.

“Just fine,” Shaxx grits out, opening and closing his fist repeatedly, and Felwinter chalks up his reaction to his ‘affliction’. He doesn’t often work directly with werewolves, after all. Perhaps his venom and Shaxx’s system interact poorly?

He realizes he’s still holding Shaxx’s arm, and when he lets go of it, quickly, it flops down, nearly boneless.

“If this hurts you so badly, I can find another source,” he offers, since Shaxx is still apparently getting his bearings.

“No,” Shaxx responds, hoarse, swiftly clearing his throat, “No, it’s fine, really. Barely feels like anything. Nothing I can’t handle.”

Despite his suspicions that Shaxx isn’t telling the truth, Felwinter shakes his head and lets it go.

* * *

The ‘someone’ Shaxx knows turns out to be a sorceress who maintains a tower not even a night’s trek from Shaxx’s castle, so they set out just a few days later, once they’ve made the castle look as unlivable as possible on such short notice. Felwinter helps the werewolf drape tarps and sheets over caches full of supplies, all neatly labeled.

“It’s good to be prepared for nearly anything,” Shaxx proclaims, when he catches Felwinter reading the side of one such set of crates, “I haven’t lived this long like  _ this _ ,” he gestures to himself, “Just by winging it.”

“Hope for the best, prepare for the worst,” Felwinter mutters, dragging the edge of the thick tarp back over the rest of the pile.

The couple of hours spent moving steadily west under waxing moonlight pass quickly, what with there being plenty of stories to tell (by Shaxx) and to listen to (by Felwinter). Passing from under a small copse, the moonlight bounces off the white part of Shaxx’s helm, and Felwinter wonders.

“The full moon is soon,” he notes, and Shaxx’s shoulders hitch with a mite of tension, “Will you be...well off?”

Shaxx just snorts at him and presses onwards, tucking his wide scarf closer around his neck, “Well, aren’t you considerate. I’ll be fine, I’m not some wild, newly-turned pup.”

The tension doesn’t ease from his shoulders, though,so the thought lingers at the back of Felwinter’s mind.

The sorceress who answers the door isn’t anything like what Felwinter was thinking of when Shaxx mentioned she was the fiercest fighter he’d ever met--she’s (seemingly) human, and quite young at that. 

“Interesting times we live in,” she greets them after Shaxx raps twice at the door to her complex, sharp-eyed and smiling with intent, “To have  _ you _ , of all people, coming to me.” Dressed in deep magenta and lilac robes, she studies both their masked visages as if she can see right through them.

“Ikora,” Shaxx ducks his head, both in greeting and to get under the door frame, and Felwitner nods at her too as she beckons them into her space.

She offers them tea from a floating porcelain set, gesturing minutely with her fingers to manipulate it as she settles in a high-backed chair, and Felwinter suppresses a snort at the sight of the tiny cup and saucer clutched in Shaxx’s large hands. Felwinter politely declines, and Ikora’s gaze lingers on his helmet for a second longer than he finds comfortable before she turns to Shaxx.

“So,” she asks, after sipping delicately from her own cup, “What brings two near-immortals to my corner of the world on this lovely evening?”

Felwinter finds himself grateful, for once, that he has no need to drink tea, because he would’ve for certain spit out a mouthful at that--how did she know? 

Shaxx merely chuckles, still helmeted, holding the teacup carefully by the gilt handle, “Right to the point, then, as always. My friend and I here recently encountered an odd sort of magic, and we were hoping that you might be able to help us identify it.”

Ikora takes a long moment to look at Shaxx over the rim of her teacup before sighing and setting it aside, sitting up at full attention, “Bringing your problems to me again, Shaxx?”

“It’s not his problem,” Felwinter interjects, before Shaxx can fumble his way through a deflection, “It’s mine.”

“Oh?” Ikora beckons with one outstretched palm, her gaze settling on Felwinter instead as a tome comes to rest in her hands, “Let me guess, does it have something to do with the string of drained bodies that have turned up nearby?”

“Keen as ever,” Shaxx pipes up, “Yes. The two of us were attacked by a trio of young thrall, barely a month old by my guess, and my companion believes he knows who sired them.”

“Unusual of you to take someone else’s opinion at face value, Shaxx,” Ikora notes, leafing through her book while still staring right at Felwinter, right through him. Shaxx stiffens in his periphery, but the sorceress presses on, “What kind of magic did you encounter? Something you’ve seen before, hunter?”

Felwinter considers, for a moment, how much he’s willing to divulge. Shaxx tilts his head at him from around the low table and he presses on, “Yes, something I’m unfortunately familiar with. Have you ever seen vampires with red or orange lines running under their skin, where veins once were? Or across the whites of their eyes?”

Ikora’s brows furrow, and she pauses on a page, eyes finally darting away from Felwinter to read something, “...A line of virulent magic, not unlike the diseases that occasionally plague humanity, that spreads through the act of vampiric feeding. It results in faster and stronger thrall, at the cost of most of their minds.”

“Yes,” Felwinter inclines his head, equal parts relieved and apprehensive that the sorceress knows of the curse, “I’ve only seen this form of it, called ‘SIVA’, used by one creature, and I am almost certain at this point that this same creature and the young vampires it’s creating are behind the recent string of deaths.”

“Dangerous play,” Ikora notes, her inscrutable gaze flicking back over to Shaxx, “All the ‘strange folk’ on this side of the mountain range know this area has been your territory for centuries, Shaxx. They must be very foolish or very sure of themselves to think this would go unnoticed,” she sighs, setting her book down on the table with a note of grim finality, “Or unchallenged. I’ve had sightings reported on the far side of the mountains, of vigilante hunters, led by that one  _ unpleasant _ fellow.”

Shaxx shifts in his seat, something that neither Felwinter nor Ikora comment on.

“You said,” Ikora continues, picking up her teacup once more, “That you’ve only known one creature who uses it in this way. Clearly, you have experience dealing with them. A long lost friend? A sibling, perhaps?”

Felwinter folds his hands in his lap, tightly, “You could say that. I’ve known him for a very long time.”

“Am I missing something?” Shaxx asks, turning his head back and forth between the two of them, “You two are both entirely too cryptic.”

“If I’m not mistaken, your ‘friend’ here,” Ikora’s voice lilts on the word, “Narrowly survived his last encounter with this particular fiend, despite his many years of experience. Is that correct?”

“Yes,” Felwinter grits out, because there’s clearly no use in lying to this witch, “I thought he was dead, permanently. That is clearly not the case. He must’ve used the virus to prevent it, somehow.”

“No matter how it happened, Rasputin still survives.”

“Wait, hold on,” Shaxx turns to look at Felwinter fully, “You’re telling me it’s  _ Rasputin  _ you’ve been tracking?  _ The  _ Rasputin, infamous for razing entire villages and turning every single person there into part of his personal army? Are you  _ daft _ ?”

Felwinter forces himself to look straight at Ikora, despite the sudden guilt trying to claw its way up his throat, “Is there a way to neutralize the effects of the curse?”

“I feel like I should be asking  _ you _ that, Iron Lord Felwinter,” Ikora supplies, and Felwinter is oh-so-aware that he hadn’t yet offered his name, “You have far more experience with him and with SIVA than I do. However,” she beckons for a rolled-up scroll resting on a shelf, and it whisks itself into her hand, “I have a theory.”

When she passes him the scroll, Felwinter unrolls it so that Shaxx can see it too, trying to parse the diagrams and what he assumes is Ikora’s neat handwriting, “...yes, he certainly would’ve needed a significant amount of energy to create his own specific line of curse...destroying the vessel he used would make sense, but…”

“What is the vessel?” Ikora offers, wry, and Felwinter nods, handing the scroll fully to Shaxx, who continues to study it, “That’s where I got stuck, as well, hence why it’s only a theory and not a published tome.”

“Perhaps a crystal of some sort, or perhaps…” Felwinter feels himself grimace, “I wouldn’t put it past him to use some of his favorite thrall as vessels, themselves, despite the impact it would have on them.”

“Whatever he’s using,” Shaxx says, passing the scroll back to Ikora, “It makes the most sense to keep it, or them, near him, somewhere well protected but close.”

Ikora nods at both of them, and the scroll goes sailing back to its rightful place as she thumbs thoughtfully at a pin affixed to her robes, “I suppose I can’t convince you to take help with you?”

Felwinter shakes his head at the same time Shaxx says “No,” and Felwinter whips around to look at Shaxx.

“I’m not asking for you to come, either,” Felwinter says, weaving his fingers together on top of his crossed legs, “This is a problem of my own making; I failed to deal with him properly the first time so now I must fix that.”

“You really  _ must _ be daft if you’re thinking of going alone,” Shaxx scoffs at him, setting his teacup down to cross his arms, “You said yourself that he’s raising another army, you really think you’re going to just waltz to wherever he’s hiding, fight off all his thrall, ‘fix things’, and leave?”

“You make it sound so easy, but yes.”

“I would also advise against that,” Ikora notes, tone light but eyes serious, “How are you going to even find him? You’ve been tracking him for quite a while with mixed success, yes? And, Shaxx,” she fixes the werewolf with a  _ look _ , “The full moon starts tomorrow night. You weren’t planning on trying to track Rasputin’s scent with that happening, were you?”

Both he and Shaxx look at her, then away. Shaxx clears his throat, “Not necessarily, I’m not a fool--”

“You’re certain about that?” Felwinter offers, and he can practically feel the glare behind Shaxx’s helmet.

“Regardless,” Ikora nips whatever  _ that _ might’ve become right in the bud, “If Rasputin just sent his thrall to find you, it will be at least a few days before he makes any moves. You have time to wait out the moon before making any decisions. And don’t even  _ think _ about trying to leave during it, Shaxx.”

Shaxx visibly winces, abruptly rising and making his way to the door, “Need some air.”

When the door shuts behind him, Felwinter’s left staring at it until Ikora sighs, “Don’t worry, he knows better than to test my patience too much. I’m more than happy to offer the both of you a place to stay while he deals with that.”

“I’m not worried,” Felwinter says, but by the way Ikora raises one immaculate eyebrow at him, she isn’t fooled.

* * *

All throughout the next day, Shaxx seems restless. He paces throughout Ikora’s abode, something it seems she is used to, if her indifference is any indication. Felwinter tries to keep himself busy, studying the glyphs on the scroll from the night before as if it will reveal any additional details to him. Ikora enlists his help for an experiment she’s working on, noting that he seems to have a ‘reluctant’ talent for magic. 

He chooses not to mention he avoids using magic whenever possible because it reminds him of where he came from. She chooses not to ask.

When twilight arrives, all three of them make their way outside. The moon is already rising, not quite fully luminous but quickly approaching.

“There’s still time to get you situated in the basement, if you’d like,” Ikora offers, with all the patience of someone who’s had this same offer refused before.

Shaxx shakes his head and shrugs off his heavy cloak and sheds his scarf, “No, I won’t impose more than I already have. Three nights will give me a chance to…” he pauses, and Felwinter can physically feel the weight of his gaze, “Think, about things.”

Felwinter takes the offered outerwear for safekeeping, trying his best to appear unaffected by the way Shaxx is acting, simply nodding, “Take care.”

“You know where to find us when it’s over,” Ikora says, and Shaxx nods at her, too, before turning and striding into the woods just past the tower.

Hours later, while Felwinter is curled up in one of the reading nooks in Ikora’s vast library, a howl rends the air, and he bolts upright.

“You’ve seen his other form before, yes?” Ikora asks, from her own station at the worktable nearby. She’s balancing an impressive collection of vials and jars above her head as she works, not bothering to look up.

“Just the once, when we first met,” Felwinter replies, and Ikora  _ does _ look up at that.

“Interesting. He’s not exactly fond of other people seeing him like this, from what I gather,” she gestures to the window, out of which the woods can be seen, dark branches hanging in moonlit limbo, “Even other people like us. He thinks it’s a separate part of himself he needs to suppress, a curse rather than a boon.”

“He’s a fool,” Felwinter offers in return, and that startles a genuine laugh out of the sorceress.

A few hours later, another howl cuts through the stillness, long and sad, somehow. Felwinter can’t stop himself from being startled once again, and Ikora sighs, “You two must’ve met just after the last full moon. Usually, he chains himself to the wall in that castle of his and waits it out.” A pause, “He’s said before that he doesn’t want to hurt anyone when he’s like this.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Felwinter asks, trying fruitlessly to return his attention to his book, “He hasn’t mentioned any of this himself, shouldn’t it be  _ his _ decision who he tells?”

Ikora pulls her goggles off, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand, “It’s because I know he wouldn’t have told you that  _ I’m _ telling you. I don’t think you’ll be able to convince him to not come with you on your journey, and I don’t think you want to. Tell me I’m wrong.”

Felwinter bites down a sigh and sets his book down in his lap, “He is stubborn.”

“Then, naturally, it would help for you two to know more about each other, if you’re planning on working together,” Ikora pulls off her gloves and carefully brings her tools to rest on the table, “Shaxx won’t tell you himself, because  _ yes _ , he is stubborn, incredibly so. But.” The sorceress takes a few more notes in the book open in front of her, “He’s...tolerant of you. More so than he is with most people I’ve seen.”

While Felwinter grapples with just how he’s supposed to use this information, Ikora stretches and heads for the spiral staircase that leads to the rest of the tower, “I’m going to sleep. Should you feel the need to rest, there are empty rooms on the third floor.”

Shaxx doesn’t appear the next day, and though Felwinter knows he likely won’t be back until after the third night, a modicum of worry hangs over him as he pokes around Ikora’s previous studies.

When the moon hits its peak later that night, the howls come again, further south than the previous night, before drifting closer.

“He’s not usually this vocal,” Ikora murmurs as he catches himself staring out the window in the library, “He sounds…sad.”

Felwinter turns back to his own notebook, jotting down notes to keep his hands and mind busy. Each howl is longer than the last. He actively avoids thinking about how it sounds like a call, like a question left unanswered.

On the third night, his resolve breaks.

By the second howl, absolutely heart-wrenching, Felwinter rises from his perch and turns to the staircase, “I’m going out.”

“Of course,” Ikora says, as if she’d been waiting for him, focused entirely on pouring arcane energy into a round crystal, “Take his scarf with you, it’ll make it easier for him to recognize you.”

“Are you sure you’re not a seer?” he half-jokes at her, and she simply waves him away.

The wind whips his coat around him as soon as he shuts the tower door behind him. He tucks Shaxx’s immense scarf around his shoulders multiple times and starts heading towards where he last heard a howl. It’s bright enough outside that he doesn’t need to use his extended senses, the moon hanging bright directly above.

The woods are eerily quiet as he steps around fallen branches and over gnarled roots. Part of his mind tells him this is ridiculous, reckless--there’s no guarantee Shaxx will recognize him in this state, no assurance that he won’t get mauled as soon as the werewolf catches his scent. He’s not even sure what exactly he’s doing out here, beyond finding Shaxx. What then? He’s not certain Shaxx can talk when he’s like this, let alone coherently--

Suddenly, he gets the distinct prickle down his spine of being watched, and he turns his helm to see one orange eye glowing from the thicket he’d just passed.

His back hits the ground before he can think about anything, and if he needed to breathe he’d be gasping. As it is, he’s still reeling, throwing his arms up to try to protect himself from claws or teeth--but nothing of the sort comes. Shaxx stands on all fours above him, sniffing at him, at the scarf wound around his frame before immediately starting to lick at Felwinter’s face with a whine.

“Ugh, stop that--” Felwinter scoots out from under him, scrambling backwards until his back hits a trunk. Shaxx follows him closely, pawing at the ground with another whine and sitting back on his haunches as Felwinter looks him over.

There’s blood streaked across his snout, though it doesn’t look to be his own, perhaps the remnants of a meal? Shaxx tilts his head at him, and Felwinter is reminded of the same gesture when Shaxx is wearing his helmet instead. This close, he can easily see the chunk missing from Shaxx’s ear and the massive scar that curves across his face, over an empty eye socket, and down through his jaw. The moonlight drains color from his tawny fur, leaving the white parts standing out starkly.

Shaxx paws at the ground again, getting into Felwitner’s personal space again with a huff, and Felwinter lets him come close this time, as long as his tongue stays away from his face. “Hello,” he tries, reaching up slowly with one hand. Shaxx snorts at him before turning to sniff at his hand, and, deeming it not a threat, he settles down right against Felwinter’s side. Felwinter carefully lets his hand come to rest on Shaxx’s side, realizing just how  _ massive _ the wolf is, compared to him. Sitting down like this, he can’t see over Shaxx’s form next to him.

“You were howling,” Felwinter says, feeling more and more foolish, and Shaxx turns his massive head to look at him, single eye darting across his frame before he smacks a paw at Felwinter’s leg. “Ow,” he says, more offended than anything, but Shaxx’s attention gets drawn elsewhere, his ears rotating sharply to their left. He growls, and Felwiner can physically feel it against his side before Shaxx gets back to his feet, quickly stalking off towards whatever he heard.

“Wait,” Felwinter calls, to no avail, as Shaxx’s form slips out of sight.

Minutes later, just as Felwinter has decided that this is ridiculous and that he should just go back to the tower, Shaxx comes lumbering back towards him, massive tail...wagging?

He forgoes licking Felwinter’s face, thankfully, but he does come right up to him and nudges him with his snout, cold nose poking into his side. “Why are you--ugh, quit that--” Felwinter grumbles as Shaxx nudges him this way and that until he can settle around him, with his form between Felwinter’s back and the tree, his head coming to rest on top of his paws at Felwinter’s side. He snuffles at Felwinter’s hand until he hesitantly brings it up to Shaxx’s head, thumbing over the matted fur there. When he gets no other reaction, Felwinter pets his head properly, wondering how exactly he got himself into this situation as Shaxx’s breathing evens out around him.

He thinks, as Shaxx rests. He thinks about Rasputin, about the Iron Lords and their dogma, about himself. He thinks about being alone.

As dawn approaches and the moon slips beyond the horizon, Felwinter breaks himself out of the trance-like state he’d assumed, hand still resting atop what was Shaxx’s furred head as there’s movement behind him. He quickly retracts his hand. There’s the unearthly sound of bone, muscle and skin twisting, rearranging themselves into a slightly more compact frame, and when he eases himself around to look, Shaxx appears much as he usually does, helmet and all. The werewolf groans, moving to sit upright, and Felwinter stands to give him space, honestly a bit shocked at how quick the transition was.

“Morning,” he offers, and Shaxx rolls his neck before looking up at him. Felwinter offers him a hand, and Shaxx grunts as he pulls himself to his feet, “How do you feel?”

“Like shit,” Shaxx offers, voice raspy as he rolls his shoulders next, “And in desperate need of a bath.”

Felwinter snorts at him, “Right. There’s still probably a huge bloody streak across your face.”

Shaxx freezes at that, “How do you--? Actually, why are you out here? And why are you wearing my scarf?”

“You were...howling,” Felwinter offers, and it sounds like a weak explanation to even himself, “You sounded...upset. And Ikora said I should wear it, so you wouldn’t attack me.”

Shaxx studies him for a moment, stretching each arm across his chest in turn, “And you thought the solution was...to come find me, a werewolf, by yourself, during the last night of a full moon? Because I sounded  _ upset _ ?”

“I am certain of my own ability to defend myself,” Felwinter deflects and Shaxx laughs, an honest, full thing.

“You really are cocky,” the werewolf says, eventually, working out the kinks in his knees, “No wonder you think you can just parade into Rasputin’s home and take him down single-handedly.”

“I won’t be going alone,” Felwinter says, unwinding the scarf from around his neck. He offers it back to Shaxx, who takes it with a snort, “Oh? Planning on asking Ikora for help? She loves field work.”

“No,” Felwinter lets his gaze dart around, and, when he’s sure they’re alone, “I was hoping  _ you’d _ accompany me.”

Shaxx, who had turned to start heading back towards the tower with his scarf draped across his shoulder once more, stops dead in his tracks, turning back to Felwinter, “You--Really?”

“If you haven’t changed your mind,” Felwinter nods, moving past him breezily, “Hopefully you haven’t. I can’t stand indecisiveness. Now, let's head back before the sun rises fully.”

He hears Shaxx stumble behind him and hides a snicker in the collar of his coat.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand we're back! Remember when I said I wanted this to be a fun little piece? Haha.  
> I've worked out some fun little bits for this work and I'm NOT going to make the same mistake as last time and try to guess how many chapters this'll end up being. I just know that it won't be nearly as long as Playing Nice.  
> Hope you all enjoyed!

**Author's Note:**

> This has been...deliriously fun to write. I've always been a vampire sort of guy, and vampire robots? What's not to love. (I'm trying really hard not to think too much about how that would actually work beyond "oooh SIVA is actually a vampire virus!!" or something)  
> This is my treat to myself, so don't expect anything too serious, or for anything to make too much sense. The idea just won't leave my head, so while I get my thoughts in order for the next big thing I'm working on, I'll be dabbling in this now and then. Hope you enjoy!


End file.
